


Dualitas

by cosmogyral_mad_woman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Demon possession, First Kiss, Forced Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, UST, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmogyral_mad_woman/pseuds/cosmogyral_mad_woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let's have a chat, shall we?” A flicker and the black glaze lifted, leaving John's eyes staring at him across the gap, John's grin sliding down to a secretive little twist of his lips. That smile, the cadence that lilted through his voice were nothing like the doctor, no matter how the demon tried to mimic him. John was, for all intents and purposes, gone. Alos placed the knife onto his lap within easy reach and re-laced his fingers together, the picture of relaxed calm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dualitas

**Author's Note:**

> This lovely piece of work was inspired by PoppyAlexander's lovely fight!lock series 'Bleed So Pretty', specifically the story 'Shut Up, Gorgeous'. The phrase, "If you'd let me..." sent a shiver down my spine. I had to use it. Thus, a plot bunny was born. Read the tags if you squick easily. I'd much rather you happy and not reading my work than broken and sad. This is your warning. While it contains elements from the show Supernatural, this is a Sherlock fic. There are references to SPN stuff, but you don't have to watch it to understand everything. I hope.
> 
> To Poppy, thank you for the inspiration (and the banter). If you haven't read Poppy's work, GO DO IT NOW. You'll thank me later. 
> 
> To my dear quietborderline, Happy Anniversary to my favorite slasher, my beta extraordinaire and my daily dose of sanity. Keep it up and I'll be making you clam chowder and rubbing your feet for eternity. All of the tea and squishes to you, love.
> 
> Not Brit-picked. Feel free to take a stab at it, if you like.

It had started out like one of their typical cases, in that it was anything but typical. Sherlock had only recently started to introduce John to the supernatural aspects of the world around them and to those pertaining to a select number of cases. He'd peppered them in between the usual, run-of-the-mill kidnappings and double murders; a little spice to break up the doldrums of life. John had reacted shockingly well to his first demon and it's subsequent slaying, only gaping like carp for a moment before asking all of the pertinent questions. It had been an atypical response, but one that he'd long since attributed to John who had been routinely putting him on the back foot for the length of their acquaintance.

 

He was pleased at how quickly John had picked up the tricks of his new trade. John had always been an adrenaline junkie of sorts and had taken to hunting like a duck to water. Not to mention the fact that it was infinitely useful to have a highly qualified trauma surgeon around for the clean up of the more troublesome cases, though he had not thought they'd need those particular skills on this particular occasion. They had been hot on the trail of what they had thought was a minor demon named Alos. It had popped up onto their radar in connection with other cases, both supernatural and mundane and it had been enough to attract Sherlock's full focus like a hound on a fox's scent. Though now in retrospect, it may have been more akin to an anglerfish luring them in as its midnight snack.

 

Their hunt and subsequent chase had led them into a small abandoned building near the Thames. They'd scouted the location carefully, drawing a large devil's trap onto the ceiling into which they intended to flush the fleeing demon. At the time he'd believed that it had been a perfect find away from prying eyes for a quick exorcism but as vertigo continued to cling to his senses, he was forced to reassess the situation. Sherlock struggled to his hands and knees, attempting to force his reluctant limbs to hold him steady by sheer will alone while he tried valiantly to recapture the breath that had been knocked from him. Dazed, he watched as John grappled with the demon's host body, a young woman. It was strong, as most demons were, considering that it had thrown Sherlock across the room and against the wall with barely a thought.

 

Surprisingly, or maybe not quite so surprisingly, John seemed to be holding his own for the moment. Pride suffused into Sherlock as John threw a hard left hook that slowed the demon long enough for him to pull the Angel Blade from its makeshift scabbard and run the smaller body through. Instead of the expected flash of light, the woman's body fell backwards in John's grasp, pulling him off balance and into the trap as the demon left the corpse in a cloud of greasy black smoke. Horrified, Sherlock could only watch as the demon moved to infiltrate John where he lay in the devil's trap, sprawled across the body. For a tense moment, the only sound was Sherlock's wheezing as the demon seemed to be acclimating itself to its new surroundings. With a grace that John had never held, the demon rose to John's- its- feet and brushed off the dust that had landed on him in the fight.

 

Glancing around, John - _No, not John, the demon._ Sherlock reminded his oxygen-deprived brain- snagged a chair that had fallen into the trap during their initial scuffle. Sherlock tensed where he crouched on the floor, expecting it to hurl the object at himself or the trap in an attempt to break the spell. However, it merely set it down squarely in the center and settled itself comfortably onto it. Sherlock's brow pleated in confusion as he watched Alos lean back, straighten John's shirt and lace his fingers against the flat plane of John's abdomen. Legs spread indolently, Alos kicked out a foot to rest on its heel, rocking it gently from side to side. On another person, in another situation, Sherlock might think that he was simply bored; an active man waiting for new stimulation. Was this bravado in the face of confinement? An attempt to throw Sherlock off? No, Alos looked as if he was exactly where he wanted be, as if his master plan was working perfectly. Trying desperately to rein in his chaotic emotional response to this mess, this cock-up of epic proportions, Sherlock pulled himself up from the floor and shrugged the Belstaff back onto his shoulders. First things first, he had to get the monster away from John and then he could puzzle out its motivations. He opened his mouth to begin the exorcism but stopped short when the demon spoke.

 

“I wouldn't, were I you.”

 

Sherlock scoffed and took a deep breath to begin again.

  
“Really, Sherlock. I would not.” Alos slipped a hand free and down to John's boot where the sound of the iron knife he'd given John snicked free from its sheath. He smirked as he flipped the knife into the air and caught it, twirling the blade between his fingers all while holding Sherlock's gaze. The iron seemed to be having no effect on him. Panic flared through the detective, sending bolts to tingle down into his fingers. _The iron had no effect_. How was that even possible? All of their recon had shown this to be a low level, black-eyed demon, not to mention that all demons on record were reported to have at least some physical reaction to the metal. What fresh hell was this? The smirk, John's 'Ha' smirk, grew into a full fledged grin that crinkled the skin around his eyes as the demon read his reaction, made all the more disconcerting for the inky black that filled his eyes.

 

“Let's have a chat, shall we?” A flicker and the black glaze lifted, leaving John's eyes staring at him across the gap, John's grin sliding down to a secretive little twist of his lips. That smile, the cadence that lilted through his voice were nothing like the doctor, no matter how the demon tried to mimic him. John was, for all intents and purposes, gone. Alos placed the knife onto his lap within easy reach and re-laced his fingers together, the picture of relaxed calm.

 

“What could you possibly want?” Sherlock gathered his scattered thoughts and brutally forced his emotions into line. Cold, hard logic was the only thing that might help John right now, not the panic scrabbling at his chest. He needed to focus.

 

“Oh, you'd be surprised.” He hummed, lips parting to show a sliver of teeth. “I've learned quite a few very interesting things since I came to this town. You see, I find myself in need of man with a certain kind of power. Someone with a high level of reach and a low level of oversight. Someone who works in the shadows and pulls all of the pretty little strings. In my search I found that a certain Mycroft Holmes _is_ the British Government and he's also got his finger in quite a few pies elsewhere. I can't tell you how overjoyed this information makes me. I mean, that is a lot of power for one man to hold. One might even say too much. That person would have to be veritably impenetrable to keep himself and his power base safe. But alas, not even the great Iceman is perfect. You see, I also learned that Sherlock Holmes is his erstwhile brother who, to the senior Holmes constant frustration, seems to find himself in tighter and more pressing binds which he must then finagle his brother out of. Here's the best part, my personal favorite.” He leaned forward in his seat, lips quirking delightedly. “John Watson, former army doctor, is quite likely the only person that the younger Holmes will listen to and the most stable influence he has, despite the fact that he is equally as crazy and reckless. Delicious...”

 

A thoughtful look crossed his face, “No one really sees that, do they?” He paused in his monologue, eyebrows raising as cocked his head at Sherlock in question. Getting no response, he continued, “They miss the steel edges, they forget the hardened career soldier. John Watson is rather adept at hiding himself behind his chosen mask of complacency. This man is as crazy as you are. He just hides it better. I bet that fascinates you. It fascinates _me,_ and nothing has fascinated me in centuries. Anyway, I digress. John Watson controls Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes...” He trailed off, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

 

“Outside of the obvious, why do you require the use of the British Government? It's not as if you can use it gather souls. Sheeple though they may be, the populace isn't likely to fall easily into line. Or are you hoping to cause wide-scale anarchy to cull as many as you can?” The detective leaned against the far wall, trying for nonchalance as quickly discarded ideas flew through his mind.

 

Alos picked up the knife where it rested against his thigh and proceeded to use it to clean his nails.“Oh, my goals are not as lofty as those. A signature here, a body there. You see, like our John, I too am a master at hiding in plain sight. Drawing too much attention only leads to Hunters, such as you are,” He flickered the knife disdainfully towards Sherlock “and others who may not be as, hmmmm, accepting of my needs. Or my existence for that matter.” He chuckled though his face held no such mirth, taking in Sherlock's reaction, the stress that his pose belied. Sherlock felt as though he were under x-ray.

 

“It's more than fascination though.” The smile flickered back to life, the cruelty in it unlike anything John had or would likely ever show. It was staggering to see that expression on his friend's features. “You like him.”

 

“Of course I do. He's my friend. Do I look like someone who befriends every passer by?” Sherlock crossed his arms, his expression as haughty and cold as he could make it.

 

“No. Don't kid a kidder. You _like him_ like him. Don't you?” The last was said flatly and sharp as a whip, unequivocal and unarguable. That tone, especially after the playful singsong preceding it, sent a shiver of fear to dance along Sherlock's spine. “Trust a _true_ sociopath, darling. You are as human as the next meatsack, full of emotion and longing for another's touch. Hide behind logic all you like, but at least admit it here between us two. You want John Watson for your very own. And you want him to want you just as much.”

 

“No.”

 

“Liar.” Alos' relaxed pose shifted in the blink of an eye, the knife tip resting just below John's xiphoid process, at the perfect angle to slide through his diaphragm and up to his heart. “I do not like liars, Sherlock. Try again.”

 

His breath, which had stopped as he registered the change, stuttered back to life. Renewed adrenaline made his pulse pound in his temples and made it feel as if his heart had migrated to his throat. He felt ill. Despite knowing that it was a ploy, he couldn't risk John. The demon would heal itself of the wound with no complications, but even if Sherlock was able to wrest the being out from him, John would die with its departure. Truth, then.

 

“Yes.” he croaked.

 

 

“Better.” The knife was drawn down along the plane of John's belly, causing the material bunch and pull around it. “This is my game that we are playing, my dance to choreograph. And you will dance to my tune, because I'm not going anywhere. I like it here and John and I are going to be quite close, I promise. He's awake, you know. Pounding against the walls of his mind, trying to break my hold. But my powers have only grown in the last couple hundred thousand years. It would take an act of God or Cain himself to stop me and since neither know that I'm still alive, we're safe for the time being, John and I. But don't get me wrong, I'm willing to make this all worth your while. It's not all about me, after all. John wants you, too. It will mutually beneficial. Promise.”

 

He looked up at Sherlock coyly through his lashes. It made Sherlock's stomach churn, that look. Part of him had been aching for John to look at him with that heat in his eyes. He'd grown resentful of his early assertion that he was married solely to his work; over the last year his regard for his flatmate and friend had only grown with each passing day. It was true, he _did_ want John for his own, but not like this. Never like this. If he and John ever got out of this, he'd get them both anti-possession tattoos regardless of John's protests. Though frankly, he'd be shocked if John would fight him on it like last time. His full attention snapped back to the man in the chair as the knife's blade slowly pulled the edge of the shirt up to expose a sliver of flesh. “I could make this good for you too, Sherlock. If only you'd let me...” The blade slide down along the zip of John's trousers, drawing Sherlock's eyes to the hard ridge below it. His light-eyed glare flashed up to connect with dark blue gone black with arousal. His breath caught in a gasp.

 

“Please, let me. I just want to make you feel good. Make you feel so good.” Whatever facet Alos had failed to grasp before, he'd achieved. The voice was all John now, gravelly and deep. The knife was placed back into its sheath as a large, callused hand retraced the blade's original path over denim and hard flesh. A groan fell from the demon's lips as he palmed John's cock through his jeans. Sherlock lungs ached and his body trembled as he watched, mesmerized. The wrongness of the situation colored the entire scene. None of this was okay in any way, but his body still reacted to watching John touch himself, John's voice begging him. Even if he wasn't really John anymore. He wanted to speak, to shout abuse at the monster that was defiling _his_ John, but as he opened his mouth to do so his voice left him. Instead, his breath panted out between his parted lips and he watched, riveted, as the zip was slowly lowered to reveal John's modest pants.

 

The white cotton briefs bulged obscenely over his girth, John's callused fingers ghosting over the tented fabric. He could see John's pulse thudding through the flesh, causing it to twitch. “I could make you scream. Make you writhe underneath me while I fuck into you. I'd make you love it. It could be so good. Please, Sherlock.” John's voice was the only sound in the room. Sherlock's head felt fuzzy and he only realized that he'd been holding his breath when it escaped in a shaky sigh.

 

He could hear the demon smile at his exhale, hear it in the voice that wrapped around him like smoke. “I want you to touch me. I want you taste me." He paused to lick his palm and fingers, "You could lick the sweat from my skin while I come all over us. I'd leave little purple bruises from my mouth and fingers all over your beautiful, pale skin. Such a lovely canvas that I could paint onto. You'd feel me for days and remember what you did to make me press them into you. The sounds we'd make, like animals rutting together. Oh, Sherlock. If only you'd let me.”

 

He couldn't tear his eyes away as strong, capable hands that he'd fantasized over countless times skimmed down into those damnable briefs, hiding the ministrations happening beneath them. His gaze shot up at the sharp hiss, taking in the tells of lust as it slackened John's features. His heart felt as if it was going to beat its way from his chest and his groin ached with need. He watched as the hidden hands teased and tugged through the material. John's head fell back, the light catching the glimmer of stormy blue as he began a slow and torturous rhythm. Knuckles occasionally caught against the band of the briefs, either by accident or design, giving tantalizing glimpses. The scent of sex was a slap to his olfactory nerves and he watched a drop of fluid bead on the gloriously purple head of John's cock only to be swiped away and spread onto the shaft below.

 

“We could still do the Work. I'd be an asset to you. We'd solve crime by day and fuck by night. You would never be bored again with me at your side. The things that I could teach you, Sherlock. The knowledge of the ages. We'd be unstoppable, you and I.” His hand flew over the turgid flesh, a wet slapping sound echoing into cool air. “Ahhhh...Sherlock...You can have me. All of me if you want it. I'd give you everything. Every last breath. It's yours for the taking.”

 

Body arching in the seat, muscles straining as he grew ever closer to the goal. Sherlock watched the long stretch of John's neck, watched the pulse hammering just beneath the surface. God, what wouldn't he do to taste that skin, to pull John's hands away from himself and replace them with Sherlock's own. Feel the blood thundering through that furnace-hot flesh, swallow him down as he came. He couldn't help the small sound that escaped his lips, nor the tiniest of steps towards the object of his affections. He was drowning and wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to be saved.

 

“Will you? Will you let me love you? I'd be so very good to you. I'd be your ever-obedient pet. If only you'll swear.”

 

_Pet._

 

Reality hit him hard like plunging through thin ice into a frozen lake. John Hamish Watson was no man's pet. Sherlock let the thought pull him free from the heat that had taken him hostage. This needed to end and he had just the trick. Alos was lost in the tide of his oncoming orgasm. He missed Sherlock's hand sliding into the deep pockets of his Belstaff. He missed the flick of the lighter and the whoosh of parchment catching light. He did not miss the single word Sherlock uttered into the tiny room. The flash of fury was the last emotion he was capable of portraying as the Enotian curse forced him free of John's now limp body. Before the demon's smoke could fully disperse Sherlock slid a small ornately carved box into the devil's trap. The crackle of electricity filled the air as Alos was pulled into the box, an unearthly wail filling Sherlock's ears and tugged at the hair on the nape of his neck.

 

He stepped into the trap and snatched up the inert box. He tossed it into the air lightly from hand to hand, examining wood as the seals glowed a virulent green as he spoke. “One of the benefits of having a brother who essentially rules the world is that he really does have all of the best toys, and is usually only mildly begrudging when I nick them. Enjoy your stay. I'm sure it'll be quite pleasant.” He placed the box into his pocket, patted it gently and turned to John.

 

John, who had slumped in the chair, was shaking in the aftermath. His face was twisted into a harsh grimace, his fists clenched tight.

 

“John.” Sherlock slid to his knees next to the chair. He wanted desperately to touch the other man, to help him put himself back together, but he was certain that his attempts would be unappreciated. Instead he knelt there, watching and waiting. When the shudders had finally subsided, John forced himself to sit straight in the chair, tucking himself back into his clothing. He swiped ineffectually at the semen on his clothes, the movements becoming almost panicky when he could not remove the mess. Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief and slowly offered it to him. He received an odd look, which he interpreted as, _why do you have a handkerchief?_

 

“I stole it from Mycroft last week. I was planning to burn it and the brolly I lifted last month in effigy next time he came to bother us.”

 

He earned a flicker of a smile and a disbelieving chuckle for the effort. He rose smoothly to his feet, and reached a hand to help John to his. “I don't know about you, but I could use a cup of tea right about now.”

 

“Yeah. That does sound nice.” John stood and looked up at him. He could hear the note of gratitude in his voice for not discussing what had just transpired. “Shall we?”

 

Sherlock gave a curt nod and they gathered the Angel Blade and Sherlock's forgotten weapon as they left. Sherlock sent off a text to his brother's retrieval team to pick up the girl's body and cleanse the room. Mycroft always got so irritated if they left the detritus of their hunts for the police to find.

 

“So, what was that box? I've not seen it before.” John asked, glancing his way. They walked to the nearest High Street to catch a cab. Luckily, the night and their dark clothing hid any spots that might have drawn attention to their altercation. Not that anyone would have noticed anyway, unobservant as the population was.

 

“Just something Mycroft's team has been working on. I stole one of the prototypes. They'll be happy to learn of its efficacy.”

 

This time John did laugh. A trifle hysterical, but a true laugh nonetheless. They climbed into the taxi that Sherlock had hailed. As he was shutting the door, John spoke, his voice low and serious.

 

“Sherlock, we do need to talk about this.”

 

“Indeed. At home.” He gave the cabbie their address as he pulled away from the kerb. Silence filled the vehicle as they drove through the city. Sherlock sneaked sidelong glances at his companion who seemed to be fascinated with the view outside of his window. Sherlock wondered if John was watching him watch John or not seeing anything at all as he stared out through the pane of glass. When the cabbie pulled up to the stretch of pavement in front of Baker Street, Sherlock paid him, noticing the speed in which John vacated the car. He was already half way up the stairs before Sherlock shut the door behind himself. He heard the sound of the shower start as he unwound his scarf from his neck and hung his coat from its hook.

 

It made sense, John's need to cleanse himself of the demon and what it had used him for. Sherlock wished that he'd been able to keep it from happening, to save John from that experience. The sensation pulled at him uncomfortably. He was still unused to the strength of such emotional responses, even though they'd been occurring with a startling frequency since John had first limped his way into the lab at St. Bart's. Though he'd had time to come to terms with his feelings for John over the last year, they could still surprise him and he was nothing if not thorough in the dissection of each one, no matter how painful they might be. He was a decisive man, not prone to much vacillation, so the idea that he'd be unsure of what he felt was ludicrous. He'd spent years separating logic from emotion, not because he did not feel it, but because emotion clouded logic. He felt, but chose to not act upon it. It was not unlike the way medical personnel, police officers or any branch of military distanced themselves from a specific situation. The intent was to both preserve their sanity and to capitalize on their training. He just chose to live his life in such a way that he could distance himself from all of it, allow it to be classified as ephemera for the preservation of his mind and of the work. No, he had access to the full range of his emotions and knew without a doubt what each one meant. It was the choice of acknowledgment and application therein that was in question.

 

He knew keenly what and who he wanted, however he did not know what John might feel for him in return. That was the unknown variable, the unquantifiable data. He knew without a doubt in his mind that he loved John Watson. He had accepted it and then squashed it down to be stored into its own wing of his mind palace, to be perused at his leisure. That Alos had been able to see straight through his defenses was worrying, because he had thought he'd hidden it better, behind layers of doors and locks. That a demon, regardless of age and experience, could see right though him was disconcerting at the least. Did John have any idea? Had he been leaking emotion like petrol? Little dribbles here and there ready to go up in flames at the slightest provocation? That was unacceptable. Until he could suss out John's feelings and whether they were in any way reciprocal, he had to maintain his facade. It wouldn't do to let on to anyone (outside of Mycroft, who had just _known_ , the insufferable bastard), especially John.

 

Sherlock went through the motions of making tea and ordering John's favorite Thai from two streets over, knowing that John would be appreciative of the thought. In searching for comfort, John sought the routines of cleanliness, tea and food. The shower was going for longer than John's normal 10 minutes, but that too was to be expected. He'd come out when he was ready, whether or not he felt clean after the intrusion. Sherlock tried to recall what a living host went through post-possession, but as it had not pertained to him in any way at the time (and since he couldn't remember when the last time he'd crossed the path of one such personage), his search came up frustratingly blank. He'd have to prepare for any situation. John came out of the bath and went upstairs to his room when Sherlock went downstairs to retrieve their dinner. He came back into the kitchen a few minutes later to find two plates of food with tea resting adjacent.

 

“There's no need to be surprised, John. I am just as capable as you in these matters. I just choose to let you wear the mantle of provider on most occasions.” Sherlock sat himself down in front of his food, sparing only a glace and a twist of his lips at John's disbelieving face.

 

Shaking his head with a huff of breath, John sat and dug into his food. Sherlock watched him carefully for any changes. Outside of the silence, John seemed fine, just preoccupied. A weight shifted from Sherlock's shoulders, but did not disappear. It would not do to relax too soon, lest something occur without his notice. John ate pensively, occasionally shooting furtive glances at his companion as they'd eaten. Now, as their plates emptied, he caught Sherlock's eye.

 

“So.” he said, setting his fork down. “Sher-”

 

“I set an appointment with one of Mycroft's minions for anti-possession tattoos. They can see us tomorrow after tea.” Sherlock rushed to interject. He found himself to be incredibly nervous now that the conversation had finally come up. He felt doubt crowd his heart and he feared John's eminent rejection.

 

Blinking, John nodded. “Yeah, I guess I can't argue that anymore.” He squared his shoulders and leaned against the table. “Sherlock. We need to talk about this.”

 

“Must we?” Sherlock pasted on his most untouchable, condescending face.

 

“Yes!” John sighed and shifted, the chair creaking under his weight. His brow furrowed in his earnestness. “What Alos said. What you said to him. Was he right? Do you have feelings for me?”

 

“John, he was a demon. Demon's lie.” His lips felt numb.

 

Searching his gaze, John asked, “But did _you_?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Of course it does. Of course. Sherlock, you are my best friend. You mean the world to me and nothing you say or do can change that. I need to know how you feel about me in return.”

 

 _John, I love you. I only feel alive when you're with me. Not even the Work is as important to me as you are. I'd sell my soul to save yours. I'd do it a hundred times if it meant that you would be happy._ The thoughts pinged through his brain, all clamoring to fly from his throat, but they stopped, clogged by his fear. Instead he said one word. “No.”

 

John sat back hard in his seat, disappointment flickering over his features before he smoothed it. “No?”

 

Confused as to the crestfallen expression, Sherlock played the last ten seconds back in his mind and said, “No, I did not lie.”

 

He watched John perk up. “You like me? Not as a friend? You really like me?”

 

“Of course I like you as a friend, but yes. I do.”

 

Laughter bubbled up out of John and a look of sheer incredulity settled on his face. “Yes?”

 

Frowning, Sherlock nodded. “Yeeees.” He couldn't figure out what emotion John was feeling. At least he couldn't until John lunged across the table to kiss him soundly on the lips. _Ah._ _Happiness_. That's what it was. Relief trickled through him to settle in his abdomen, warm and smooth, like good scotch. He wrapped his arms around John to clasp him closer as he pressed urgently back into the kiss. He was fairly confident that he could handle happiness.

 


End file.
